


This Hour And What Lives

by sphinxofthenile



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Gift Fic, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Rare Pairings, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 23:32:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18398594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sphinxofthenile/pseuds/sphinxofthenile
Summary: "Absolutely not," Fury says, serious as a heart attack, and keeps piling sugar into his coffee cup.





	This Hour And What Lives

**Author's Note:**

> This is for a great friend and terrible enabler who passed cosmology! \o/
> 
> I wrote most of this before Captain Marvel came out, so we are just going to pretend none of that ever happened. Also, Clint is a persistent diva who wouldn't be excluded from this fic. None of this is my fault. Title inspired by [this](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43326/this-hour-and-what-is-dead) poem.

"That could've gone better," Fury says the first time they meet and spits blood on the cracked asphalt where he is almost casually leaning against the smoking wreck of a car. The image is rather ruined by the fact that his suit is in tatters, there is a trail of blood running down his temple, and his shoulder is definitely not meant to bend that way.

"Indeed," Coulson agrees evenly, pausing his stride to shield his eyes from the glare of the midday sun. "Could've gone worse," he adds after a critical once-over.

"That so?" Fury looks around as if to make a point of the surrounding destruction.

"You're still alive," Coulson offers with a slight eyebrow raise.

"Yeah? Don't much feel like it," Fury gives a sarcastic huff and fumbles for his pack of cigarettes with his good hand. Putting the shoulder back in place is going to be a bitch. "But I don't suppose you're here to chat about my health, whoever the hell you are."

"Apologies, sir. I'm--"

"The new guy. You can get to the point any time before I bleed out."

Coulson swallows and gives a barely perceptible nod. "Agent Fury, Morgan wants to see you."

Fury chuckles, but the sound morphs into a sharp hiss. "Shit, don't make me laugh."

Coulson shifts a little and waits.

"Damn, you're serious." Fury lifts an eyebrow. "Well, if you’re waiting for me to care, I hope you brought something to eat, ‘cause it’s gonna be a _really_ long time," he drawls, fixing Coulson with a glare to melt ice.

"There was this cozy little pasta place on the corner, exploded just recently. But I don't suppose you'd know anything about that," Coulson deadpans and holds that hellfire gaze until Fury breaks into a raspy, wheezing laugh.

 

***

 

"Mr. Acosta, please allow me to introduce--"

"Down, get down, dammit!" Fury shouts in time with the sound of a dozen shattering champagne flutes and the staccato burst of semi-automatic weapons. He drags the man behind the flimsy cover of an upturned banquet table and bites back a string of curses as he spots more of the attackers appear near the exits. "Moretti, get your ass over here, I need backup!"

"Negative, we are pinned down!" her voice crackles in his ear.

"Shit." He peers out from cover and takes out one of the men dressed from head to toe in black tactical gear like cheap Hollywood extras, then half-herds, half-drags Acosta, pale and semi-conscious with panic, into the relative safety of the nearby corridor. By the time they manage to get to the elevators, Fury has an arm nicked by a bullet and a gash above his left eyebrow that will definitely need stitches.

"Agent Fury, we have a bird on the roof, can you get there?" A familiar voice comes over the radio, and he needs a moment to put a face to it.

"We need a route. Elevators are down." Naturally. Sometimes, he wishes such things could still surprise him.

"Just a moment."

"Yeah, sure. Take your time," Fury quips. Not that it seems to have any effect.

"There is a staircase to your left at the end of the hall," the voice announces calmly, and Fury signals Acosta to stay back while he checks it out.

"Care to tell me what are you doing up there?" he cannot help but ask once they start climbing up. He's not one for surprises. Not even pleasant ones. _Especially_ pleasant ones.

"Agent May and I just… happened to be nearby."

"Uhuh," Fury says, but once they reach the hatch a few bruises and three magazines later, New Guy's face smiling down at him from above is probably the best thing that has happened to him all day.

"Good day, Agent Fury," Coulson says as though they've gathered for tea instead of running for their lives as he extends a hand to help them up. "We really need to stop meeting like this."

 

***

 

"Absolutely not," Fury says, serious as a heart attack, and keeps piling sugar into his coffee cup.

Morgan looks beyond annoyed, but he is still clinging tooth and nail to the last vestiges of his condescending superiority. "Agent Fury. Your mission was a complete disaster and Mr. Acosta is terribly upset about the damage--"

"Oh yeah? Do you know what that sounds like? Not my problem." Fury takes a sip and leans back in his chair like he owns the entire conference room and everyone in it.

Morgan is practically changing colors at this point and Coulson hides the twitch of his lips behind a polite cough. "It's a problem for us all. Then there is the matter of assigning you a new partner while Moretti recovers. Johnson comes highly recommended--"

"Johnson? He's about as useful as a screen door on a submarine," Fury groans. "I'll pass. That guy. I'll work with him."

Coulson blinks. He must be hallucinating because Fury is pointing straight at his chest. From the corner of his eye, he can see May shift beside him, and he has the sinking feeling she's endlessly amused by all of this, but he cannot quite bring himself to look away from Fury to confirm it.

"Agent Coulson is a junior agent who--"

"Was exactly where we needed him when we needed him." Fury studies him over the rim of his paper cup and Coulson suddenly has some difficulty swallowing.

"Denied."

"Pity. I'm sure Mr. Pierce will see things my way," Fury offers smoothly, but the effect is nonetheless that of a bomb going off.

"Wait, wha-- You! You can't do that!" Morgan stutters, but Fury only gives him a meaningful eyebrow raise. So he whirls around and continues to gape at Coulson. "That's-- agent, you absolutely _cannot_ \--"

"Sir, we’re all refreshed and challenged by your unique point of view." Coulson interrupts mildly, even though his heart is making what feels like cartwheels against his ribs as Fury snorts a laugh into his cup.

 

***

 

"So, what's the deal between Fury and you?" Clint asks him around a mouthful of burrito as he flops down on the couch next to him with a coffee cup the size of a beer stein.

Instead of rolling his eyes, Coulson valiantly focuses on balancing his laptop on his knees and not getting sauce on his sleeve as Clint waves his food at him. "I'm afraid that information is classified up to level 9 clearance," he offers without looking up from his screen, mostly because he knows Clint and his terrible persistence.

"Sorry, I didn’t get that. I don’t speak bullshit," Clint grins at him and takes another bite.

Damn, but Coulson could really do with some food. His joints are all stiff from sitting and there is the familiar pounding of an approaching headache in the back of his head. It doesn't exactly help that Fury was supposed to report in five hours ago and Coulson hasn't moved from his spot ever since.

"I brought you coffee?" Clint sing-songs, and suddenly an entire tray appears in Coulson's peripheral vision with a paper cup and a takeaway box and a pair of fortune cookies.

"Are you trying to bribe your superior, Agent Barton?" Coulson looks up at last with a raised eyebrow and a stern look firmly in place to hide that he knows what Clint _really_  is doing and how touched he actually feels.

"Come on, Phil, give me something" Clint nudges him with his bare foot. "I have money riding on this. If I'm right, that's two weeks of free sushi. Can you just imagine?"

Coulson gives Clint his most mild-mannered smile that also happens to be his most dangerous. "Take it from me, Agent Barton. In our line of work, being right isn’t nearly as important as knowing when to shut up."

 

***

 

Coulson rubs his tired eyes and takes another sip of his tepid coffee. It smells terrible and tastes worse, but at least it keeps him occupied enough. The lights in the hallway are dim compared to those in the operation suite, and in that brightness Fury's skin looks terrible against the whites and greens with a hue of dull grey that makes Coulson's stomach lurch uncomfortably.

"How is he?" The low voice startles him, and Coulson almost drops his paper cup.

"Mr. Pierce, sir--"

"I just wanted to check in," Alexander Pierce says, and somehow it sounds like a command, an excuse and an apology all rolled into one. He looks comfortable and approachable in his well-tailored suit, and far more awake than Coulson's felt in weeks.

So he swallows the questions that come to mind and refrains from pointing out that it's almost midnight. Everybody else left hours ago. Except for Hill, who's in a different room in the same hospital, except she did not require surgery. Instead, Coulson just squares his shoulders and recites for Pierce the medical data that's seared into his brain. Cracked ribs, fractured pelvis, third-degree burns, abrasions, lacerations, blood loss, and an eye that cannot be saved.

"What a mess." Pierce shakes his head, steps closer to the glass. "Nick so loved the field."

It's a simple thing, really, but it slips beneath his skin, heavy with implication. It makes him tense up, his mouth draw tight and his fingers clench around his cup. "With all due respect, Mr. Pierce, sir. Nick Fury is a man who sees more with one eye than most people with two."

 

***

 

"Any news?" Coulson asks, and Ramona smiles at him with a spark in her eyes.

"Why don't you go and see for yourself?" she motions towards the door and Coulson has to glance down at his perfectly polished shoes before he can look back at her and nod. He walks up to the door and knocks, and his heart misses a beat when he hears Nick answer.

Fury is seated on the bed, dressed in dark pants and a turtleneck. His hair is shorn and he studies the eyepatch in a gaudy little mirror with a cross and a rose on the back. Ramona must've lent it to him. There is a neat row of stitches across his scalp, and two fingers of his left hand are in a splint.

"Coulson," the corner of his mouth curves into a sardonic little smile. "Sit down, have a drink," he gestures at the small side table with a bottle of Macallan and two glasses. That one, Coulson is quite certain, came from Alexander Pierce's private collection.

"I'm on duty, sir."

"Then sit down and watch me have a drink," Fury gingerly pours a glass and closes his good eye as the taste hits. "And stop scowling, I'm fine," he adds, eye still closed.

"If you say so, sir." Coulson tries to keep his voice level. He will never get used to seeing him like this, surrounded by hospital white with bandages peeking out from beneath his clothes.

"You are not still cross about Friday, are you?" Fury looks at him, raises an eyebrow, the teasing bastard. Still, this is familiar, and Coulson feels rather grateful for it. "This is what, the third time I missed a date?"

"Fifth, actually," he deadpans, but the corner of his lips twitches at the flat look from Fury.

"Really."

"Not counting Cambodia. Or Budapest. Though I'd really rather not count Budapest--" Coulson watches as Fury finally rises and walks up to him, movements careful but sure. He moves to help, but Fury refuses it with a raised hand.

"Coulson?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Shut up," Fury says, and Coulson really wants to say something scathing, but Fury is kissing him in the middle of a goddamn hospital room, and no comeback he can think of could ever beat that.


End file.
